


Behind the door.

by Beth_Can_Write



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Can_Write/pseuds/Beth_Can_Write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is given an address what could possibly be waiting for him? His best friend or just another joke?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is short mainly because it's introducing the story, like telling you what's really going on. sorry.  
> also I'm working on the next chapter of I'm Not Insane but I just feel like crap, sorry!

“Isn’t that John Watson?” Someone nodded his head down the bar and his friend nodded, “Yeah, the friend of that detective guy that killed himself?” his friend nodded again.

“Do you think he actually died?” 

“What, Sherlock Holmes? Of course I do, no-one could survive that jump.” The first man shook his head incredulously.

“Well yeah but he was a smart man, never know what he could have done, it could have been a trick.” Johns head lifted at that comment.  
What was it Sherlock said? Sherlock said something about it being a trick. He was sure of it and so he just ordered another drink, staring straight ahead.

It had been three weeks since Sherlock died and there were many conspiracy theories about it. 

The main one was that he was a fraud, that he had invented Moriarty and did kill himself.

The second, that he was a fraud and did do all the crimes but he faked his death.

The third, and this one was Johns favourite, what that Moriarty was real, that Sherlock Holmes didn’t make up the crimes, he just solved them. The end of this one was nearly always different. Some said he was now living in a bunker underground, hiding out. Others declared that he was helping to destroy the criminal web that Moriarty left. Many believed he really did die, and John held this belief strongly, if anyone said otherwise he would say no, shake his head and walk off. The false hope that maybe a miracle had happened and his best friend was alive was always enough to lead John to a pub, any pub.

“No, he wasn’t smart enough to fake a jump from that high up!” The man scoffed again, “Look, mate, I’m getting bored of talking about him, he’s all anyone’s ever on about these days, can’t they just let it go? Are you coming to play pool?” he downed the rest of his beer and stood up, his friend shook his head and stayed sitting there.

“I’m going to stay here.” He said, shrugging, “You go ahead.” 

“Okay.” The man rolled his eyes and walked out, leaving just his friend and John at the bar. 

The remaining man stood up, pushing his way down the bar and landing in the seat beside John. “What do you think, John, was it a trick?” he asked.

“Um- I just want peace, mate.” He shook his head and looked away, eyes narrowing. 

“I know, I know, but what do you think?”

“I think you should leave me alone.” 

“Okay, but if you want to know why I think it was a trick then go to room 34 of the new Babylon Hotel, there’s a reason in there.” 

John narrowed his eyes and downed his beer, “Keep your reasons to yourself, I wanted a nice drink on my own, not to get told some bull reason as to why my best...” Jim cut himself off, his voice cracked and he blinked a few times, vanquishing the tears. “Just, keep your thoughts to yourself, stop inflicting your opinion of the world.” He repeated what Sherlock had said to him before and turned to walk out, the dramatic exit was significantly less dramatic as he stumbled.

“Just go there, please.” The man called out, leaning back against the bar and ordering two drinks, one for himself and one for his friend, he would head out to play pool when John left. 

When John managed to stumble up his stairs he instantly collapsed on Sherlock's bed, as he did every night, and inhaled the man’s scent, loving how it felt. He slept the same way as he did every night too, practically catatonic until the nightmare. 

The image of his best friend falling over and over again, but he was on the rooftop too, he was leaning over the side and reached his hand out, he nearly had Sherlock, God he was so close, just take my hand you idiot. And he’d lean further over, willing Sherlock to reach that little bit higher. Then he’d be falling, tumbling headfirst against the concrete, he’d watch Sherlock as they fell together and wake up panting just before he’d hit the concrete. 

He woke up at two o’clock on this particular morning and there were two things he could remember. Babylon and 34. He couldn’t make sense of it so he shook his head, getting rid of the image as he relaxed back into Sherlock's bed, finally kicking off his shoes and curling into a tight ball.


End file.
